It warmed my heart.  There I was walking along the produce aisle at
the new Porter Square Star when all of a sudden I heard ``Please stand
back.  The mist is about to begin.''  They must have read my GSB
message and taken action.  No more Gene Kelly Singing in the Rain.
Only a dry, boring, but functional and polite warning message left in
its place.  I continued shopping and smiling about my achievement and
didn't notice the man who was following me until the eggplant that he
carried with him came crashing into my skull.  It was a rotten
eggplant.  I stumbled around trying to wipe the seeds out of my eyes
and that's the last thing I remember until I woke up.  

At first I was a little disoriented, but after a while I got used to
the lighting and my head cleared a bit and I realized that I was in
the employee back area at the Porter Square Star.  I had been there
before, searching for a bathroom.  Then there was the time I went
posing as a USDA inspector running around with a Grade D Meat stamp.
But that's another story.  So I shook my head clear and it was then
that I noticed him sitting on a bench across from me, plugging in a
portable stereo.  

    ``What happened,'' I asked.  

    ``You started having a sneezing fit after being covered by
      eggplant bits.  Apparently you're allergic to raw, rotten eggplant.
      Anyway, you hit your head on a steel display case while sneezing.''

    ``Wait, why am I tied to this appliance dolly?  And who the heck
      are you?  And what the heck are you doing?,'' I asked, not
      disguising my irritation.

    ``Shut up!  That's enough out of you.  I'm the guy who was
      responsible for adding a little music to the produce counter and
      I'm the guy who lost his job because of you.  I'm also the guy
      who's now going to exact some revenge.  So you don't like my
      music, huh?  You punk.''

    ``Wwwwwhat are you gggoing to do to me?,'' I asked.

    ``I'm going to leave you there, tied up and listening to one of
      those stations that plays YOUR kind of music.''

And with that he left and I started laughing.  Here I thought that I
was going to be bludgeoned with produce and instead I was being
sentenced to listen to WFNX until someone finds me.  Some revenge!  

So I listed to the music for a while.  I knew all the songs and soon started
singing along...

    ``I won't pay I won't pay.  NO waaay!  Nah nah why don't you get a job?''

Cool.  I like The Offspring.

    ``Every morning there's a halo hanging from the corner of my
      girlfriend's four post bed...''

Cool... I know this one, too.  But after several hours, it got worse.
Deborah Harry chimed in:

    ``Maria, you've got to see her!  Go insane and out of your mind.''

Uh, o.k., whatever.  

    ``You make me feel like I want to be a dumb blonde in the center
      for the girl next door.''

Paula Cole, what were you thinking?

    ``Wanna put my tender, heart in a blender, watch it spin around to
      a beautiful oblivion.''

Tender heart in a blender?  The mental image is more appealing than
the lyrics.  This was starting to make me ill.  

And it went on this way for several hours.  The last thing I remember
was sheer disgust as Natalie Imbruglia crooned:

    ``think of all the bubbles of love we've made''

I woke up Friday night in the alley behind Star with a note pinned to
my chest:

    Now what do you think of Gene Kelly?



Thanks to Christian for filling in for me while I was, er, tied up
last week.  Come help me recover at this week's


G I R L   S C O U T   B E N E F I T
5:35, 7ai, see you there.